L'amour Actually (3 page)

  'I'll keep it with me thanks,' I smiled at him, feeling a little mean that I had spoken so sharply.

  Gérard shrugged and motioned for me to get in the back. From close up it appeared that it had been some time since his last close encounter with soap and water, and possibly a toothbrush, not that there was that much left to brush. I wondered whether I'd still be able to get my teeth whitened here.

  I handed him the address of Les Tuileries and Gérard took off at an alarming pace, all the while babbling on at me in unintelligible French whilst the ancient Peugeot bounced and rattled over the pitted road surface. Yet again, I wished I'd paid more attention to French lessons at school. Mind you, the very idea that I would one day move to France would have been laughable back then. Even the welcome, but sadly short-lived, addition of a very cute language assistant from Paris wasn't enough of an antidote to the linguistic Temazepam that was Madame Martin's dreary lessons.

  Winding down the window a bit to get some cooler air circulating around the stuffy car, I leaned back and shut my eyes. I'd done it. I was in France. This was the start of my own 'French Dream'. As the wind tousled my hair and Gallic love songs spilled out from the crackly radio, Gérard hummed along softly. All was well with the world. My eyelids grew heavy and within minutes, I had drifted off into a light sleep dreaming of feeding my chickens, weeding my vegetable plot and bottling my delicious homemade jam while the smell of freshly baking bread wafted from my Aga – did they have Agas in France? It was a scene straight out of one of those French lifestyle magazines that I'd been devouring hungrily for the past few months, and here I was, in the middle of it.

  I was jolted awake as we went round a sharp bend and suddenly, in front of us and taking up practically the whole of the road, was an enormous agricultural machine. I shouted at Gérard who, startled, wrenched the wheel to the right and slid by the huge mechanical beast with millimetres to spare. I breathed again, we had made it. Suddenly I let out a scream as the old jalopy slid gracefully into a huge ditch, like a seal slipping off an ice floe, and came to rest on its side, wheels still spinning, churning up clouds of dust that floated in through the open windows.

  Inside the car, I lay on my side, held in place by my seatbelt. My suitcase, which had been on the seat next to me, was on top of me, along with assorted detritus that had been in the seat pockets. As the dust settled, a quick check of my limbs revealed that nothing was broken and I struggled to undo my seatbelt. Gérard was already scrambling over the passenger seat to climb out through the door, a purplish bruise that was starting to form on his cheek the only visible evidence of how close we had come to disaster. He pulled open my door and pushed the suitcase out of the way, before hauling me rather inelegantly up and out onto the road with surprising strength for such a small man. The only casualty was my blouse, which caught on the window winder and tore open. Gérard averted his eyes chastely as I quickly pulled it together. Apart from that, we seemed to have escaped unscathed. The monster machine, a combine harvester, had stopped a bit further up the road and the driver was already racing back to the scene of the accident.
'Ça va?'
he asked us, a worried look on his face.

  Gérard nodded in the affirmative and with a dip of his head towards me said,
'Anglaise.'

  'Are you all right,
mademoiselle?
'

  I nodded. Tears pricked the back of my eyes as I struggled not to cry. This was definitely not in the little tableau I'd created in my dream.

  '
Oui
, yes, I'm OK.'

  The driver made me sit down on the verge and produced a bottle of lukewarm water from one of the many pockets of his combat trousers. Gérard swilled his mouth out and spat noisily into the ditch before handing me the bottle. Eeuugh, I thought, but my mouth was full of dust and my throat was as dry as an African riverbed; so wiping the top vigorously on my skirt (and noticing that the combine driver took the opportunity for a quick peek at my legs), I drank deeply.
'Crachez, mademoiselle,'
said the driver, feigning spitting.

  Well this was a fine start to my dream; sat at the side of a road, filthy, my blouse torn, my hair hanging in dusty rats' tails and being told to spit in the dirt. The only spitting I had planned was at wine tastings at the local vineyards. On the positive side though, I had to admit, our rescuer was really quite cute. Out of the corner of my eye, I studied him more closely; he was tall and strong with thick, wavy chestnut hair and light hazel eyes that gave him an almost ethereal appearance. He had a bit of the look of Channing Tatum about him, just slightly more rustic. From the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt I could see tanned forearms, knotted with muscles, and through his combat trousers, I could make out a pair of seriously impressive thighs. He had full lips, perfect for… Oh, for heaven's sake, I told myself, you've only been in France for a few hours and you're already acting like a love-struck teenager. I gave him my best winning smile. Not easy when your face is covered in dust and your blouse is torn, revealing rather more
décolletage
than was probably decent in these parts. He looked at me strangely. Maybe this was considered a bit too forward out here in the sticks.

  Pulling a mobile phone from his pocket, he punched in a number, speaking more quick-fire French that I couldn't understand. When he finished, he turned to me and choosing his words carefully, explained slowly in English that his brother would be along in a few minutes with his tractor to pull the car out of the ditch. As we waited, my phone suddenly sprang to life, emitting a symphony of beeps. Well, at least I now had a signal. I looked at the list of texts, mainly from my friends, wishing me luck in my new life. To them, my new life was just going to be one long round of sunshine and chilled
rosé
. Not so far, I thought. There was one from Madame Mollet, the letting agent:

I am afraid I have a meeting and cannot come to Les Tuileries today. The key is in the post box. I call tomorrow.
Cordialement
.

The knight in shining armour came and sat down beside me.

  'Julien d'Aubeville,' he said offering me his hand. Suddenly feeling very self-conscious, I took his hand and introduced myself, holding onto it for just a moment longer than necessary. He pulled it away. 'Ah, you have a good French name,
hein
?'

  I'd never really thought about it but, rolling off his tongue, it certainly sounded French and maybe even a little bit sexy.

  'So where are you going?'

  'To St Amans de Pierrepoint. Do you know it? I've rented a cottage there.'

  'St Amans? Yes, I know it well. Our farm is only about half a kilometre from there. If you like, when we've got the car out of the
fosse,
the ditch, I will take you there.'

  'Would you? That would be really kind. I don't think Gérard's car will be going far.'

  A loud chugging engine and a whiff of diesel signalled the arrival of the tractor to pull the car out of the ditch. A young man jumped out and strode purposefully towards us. I did a double take, turned to Julien and then back to the newcomer. I took in the same wavy, chestnut hair, hazel eyes and slight look of Channing Tatum. Hmm, things were really starting to look up. Julien noticed me looking from him to his brother and back again.

  'Yes, we are identical twins. Well, nearly identical. I am of course much better looking. This is my brother, Louis.'

  
'Enchanté,'
Louis said putting out a work-roughened hand and giving me the once-over in a way that made me ever so slightly uncomfortable again.

  I watched, fascinated, as the two brothers hitched up a cable to the back of the old Peugeot and then Julien leapt nimbly into the cab.

  
'Vas-y,'
shouted Louis, giving his brother the thumbs up. Slowly and carefully, they started to winch the poor old car out of the ditch. It creaked and groaned arthritically as it inched out and I could hardly bear to watch. I was sure that the newly redesigned Peugeot wouldn't make it in one piece, but despite all indications to the contrary, within minutes it was upright and back on the road.

  Julien stopped the tractor, climbed down from the cab and Gérard walked round the car to inspect the damage amid much huffing and scratching of his head.

  
'C'est foutu,'
he announced sadly.

  I looked to Julien for a translation. 'He said it's fucked.'

  I resisted the urge to smile at his use of an Anglo-Saxon expletive, but looking at the damage to the car, I had to agree he had a point.

  'You speak, er, good English,' I commented.

  'No, I swear good. My English is actually quite shit. Me and Louis worked in Ashford in Kent for a while but it's the
trou
du cul
of England so I came back.'

  
Trou du cul
? I guessed it wasn't a compliment.

  'Right. Yes, it's not a great place really,' I replied, making a mental note to Google Translate
trou du cul
as soon as I could fire up my laptop.

  'OK, are you ready?'

  'Yes,' I replied. 'Oh, wait a minute. My suitcase.'

  Julien retrieved it from the back of the car and then put it in the cab of the tractor. He offered me his hand to help me to my feet and motioned for me to get in. I rated my chances of successfully climbing onto the tractor in heels as somewhere between nil and not a chance and in any case, my precious Louboutins were now ruined beyond any hope of repair. 'Oh well, new life, new footwear, I suppose.' It was clear that killer heels would be completely impractical in rural France. I bent down and removed them, planted a kiss on each toe and with all my strength, hurled them into the undergrowth. They might make a nice home for a mouse or something. Brushing my hands together, I hitched up my skirt and with a helping hand from Julien and a push from behind from Louis (though I did wonder if he really
needed
to touch my bum), I scrambled into the tractor, a knot of childish excitement in my stomach. I'd never been in a tractor before.

  'It is not very comfortable,' said Julien, 'and you must hold on tight.' I looked for something to hang on to. '
Non
, you must hold on to me,' he smiled.

  Oh well, if you say so I thought, wrapping my arms around his muscular chest and feeling the warmth of his back pressed into my breasts. I was sure I could feel his heart beating a little faster than was normal and I smiled to myself. There had definitely been a
frisson
of something between us.

  We bumped along in the tractor, every rut in the road making me more aware of the hard muscles of Julien's body pressed up against me, separated only by my filmy blouse and his work shirt. I wondered how long it would take to get to Les Tuileries, secretly hoping that it would be a while. As we continued along the road for several miles, I had a panoramic view of the countryside from my vantage point in the cab. It stretched on endlessly but was worryingly devoid of any people. Where on earth were they all? I was just starting to wonder if I had picked the only part of France where cows outnumbered humans three to one when the tractor turned sharply up a hill.

  'This is the road to your new home,' smiled Julien, a broad grin spreading across his face. 'That is our farm.' He pointed to a crop of buildings spread across the lower slopes.

  'We are almost...
voisins
, how you say, neighbours. St Amans is just at the top of the hill.' His accent turned my knees to jelly.

  The road wound its way up the hill, crossing over a little river that, Julien told me, gave the valley its name. Finally, we rounded a sharp bend into the hamlet. A cluster of pale stone houses of various shapes and sizes lined the main road, if you could call it that. A little lane led off to the left and what appeared to be a very grand house, almost a mini-chateau, sat shielded behind a dense row of poplars.

  '
Salut
, Martine!' Julien called to a middle-aged woman tending chickens in her garden. She waved gaily to him and continued with her work. I couldn't help noticing that she appeared to be wearing a nylon housecoat topped off with a nice pair of pink, fluffy bedroom slippers. My friend Charlotte had a family holiday home in northern France and had told me about the dreaded nylon housecoat. God, French chic certainly did seem to have bypassed this little corner of France. '
Salut
, Laure,' he called to a younger woman who had appeared at the door of the house. She didn't respond, preferring to look out at the world through a curtain of stringy hair.

  I looked around, a rising sense of panic gripping me. Where was the local shop, an
épicerie
or
boulangerie
or something? Where was the village café where I had imagined myself spending lazy afternoons sipping a chilled glass of
rosé
? In fact, where was everything? All I could see for miles around were fields and cows and more fields. It was all very beautiful but I had no idea that it would be so remote. Maybe I should have put a bit more thought into choosing where to live rather than just relying on places I'd heard of and the number of hours of sunshine. Apart from Martine and Laure, I still hadn't seen a soul and I somehow didn't think that they would ever be up for a night of clubbing. 'Um, where's the nearest shop...
magasin
?' I asked.

  'Rocamour is the nearest village but it only has a post office and an
épicerie
. You go that way,' he said pointing behind him to a road that wound up the other side of the valley.

  'Bussières is about five kilometres away. It is bigger and has a supermarket and a bank, a few restaurants, a pizzeria, that sort of thing.'

  'What about a nightclub... you know, dancing?'